


The Rooster Moans

by trashcangimmick



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Drunk Sex, M/M, Masochism, Power Dynamics, Self-Esteem Issues, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 05:45:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7832635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/pseuds/trashcangimmick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a fucked up way, Seth is actually the longest relationship Dean’s ever had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rooster Moans

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the [Iron & Wine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkNSwRwc6aQ&index=3&list=PLJz09j4aSDBngzgTlLXWH2VGSEZsdyS7D) song.

The Lunatic Fringe.

Crazy. Trailer trash. A drunk hobo that stumbled into the ring, raring to go. A match with Dean Ambrose is just a few notches above a drugged-up, back-alley bum fight. Garbage like that should never be champion. Can’t be the face of the company. Unless you want to teach the children that the path to glory is littered in empty whiskey bottles and second-hand clothes.

And yet, there’s gold around Dean’s waist. Against all odds, he’s taken the throne. Out of all the old Shield members, he was always Least Likely To Succeed.  Who’s laughing now?

Roman, disgraced for failing a drug test. Almost unanimously hated by the crowd. Booed every time he sets foot in the ring. Seth freshly back from an injury, still a whiney heel in Daddy’s pocket. And here’s Dean. On top of the motherfucking world. Nobody can touch him. He’s on fire. 

So why isn’t he happy? What’s with that cold, hollow feeling in his chest? It’s different from the usual void that you can fill with booze, cigarettes and meaningless sex. It’s an acute pain. Like a torn muscle. Impossible to ignore. 

Now that he’s on Smackdown, he can’t even pick a fight with good old Borky Laser and get suplexed until there are no more thoughts in his head. Just peaceful white noise. Body bruised, bloodied, and incredibly relaxed. There’s a strange sort of comfort in having the ever-loving shit kicked out of you. 

Or, you know, maybe Dean really is just a nutcase. You don’t exactly become a professional wrestler because you’ve got a whole lot of other natural talents at your disposal. Dean’s good at two things. Throwing punches and taking them. Not many careers really cater that. And he wasn’t gonna be caught dead in no army uniform.

The clock on the bedside table says it’s 3:05 am. He’s in another dumpy motel, in some podunk town in one of them big, square states in the middle of the country. In transit from one place to another. It never stops. Perpetual motion is the only thing keeping him upright. On the road, every day, every week, every year until your body breaks for good and no doctor will put their license on the line to medically clear you for the ring. 

When he was a kid, Dean used to have grand ideas about joining the circus. It’s funny how things work out. He ended up little better than a carny.

There’s that thumping on the door again. It’s the second time in the last few minutes. Dean half wondered if he was imagining it. Because nobody comes to his hotel room to invite him out for drinks these days. When you’re a Winner, none of the Losers want to play with you. Most of the locker room has been cool towards him ever since he got the belt. 

_You don’t deserve it._ _You don’t deserve any of this. You’re no Stone Cold Steve Austin. You’re no Mick Foley. You should have stayed on the indie circuit where you belong._

Dean rolls off the bed and stumbles over towards the door. He doesn’t bother looking through the peephole to see who’s waiting for him. Doesn’t bother with the burglar chain. If someone wants to fight, he’s drunk enough he won’t feel it. After all, he’s nothing but reckless destructive tendencies wrapped in a wiry shell. 

He yanks the door open and stares blankly for a minute. Because the absolute last thing he expects to see is the original weasel-faced sleazebag. A.K.A. his least favorite old tag team partner. A.K.A. the crazy he’s stuck his dick in on far too many occasions, and dear god this really can’t be happening again.

“I was starting to wonder if you’d finally drank yourself into a coma,” Seth snorts. He pushes past Dean without waiting to be invited in. “Did you lose your phone again?”

That… is actually a great question. Everything got a little blurry after Dean slammed back five double Jacks at the bar across the street. It’s probably around here somewhere…? 

Seth has settled down onto the bed. That’s not good. That’s not good for anybody. Dean should tell Seth to get the fuck out of here.

Except. Well. Dean knows this is a bad idea. Just, when it’s happening, he has a hard time remembering why it’s so awful. He won’t know exactly how much he fucked up until tomorrow morning. When all the regret comes pouring in along with the pounding headache.

“Shut the door, Ambrose.” Seth raises his eyebrows.

“Bite me,” Dean grunts. But the door does swing closed with a resounding click. It’s a nail in the coffin. Once Seth is in the bed and the door is closed, the battle is basically over. 

Dean could ask questions. Like,  _ why are you here when I am already suffering? Is it likely that you’re going to try to stab me after I fall asleep? Do you have Daddy H’s blessing to be sleeping around this time or are you still doing this just to piss him off? _

But questions take time and effort. They require rational thought. Some degree of coherency. It’s much easier to just stand there and watch as Seth strips off his shirt and wiggles out of those sinfully tight jeans. He wasn’t wearing shoes. Then again, why would he have to when his room is five doors down the hall.

Dean would like to say they haven’t done this since before the injury. Since before the Shield split, even. But Seth was back in Dean’s bed the second he got back on the circuit. And even a couple times while he was still in the throes of physical therapy.

It’s a vicious cycle. Dean’s just kind of compelled to indulge in any vice that presents itself. And well. Seth is a  _ very _ pretty package. 

“You just gonna stare at me, or are we fucking?” Seth wrinkles his nose, in that way that he does. It’s kind of cute.  It’s terrible. “Can you even get it up right now?”

“I can sure as hell try.” The words are out of Dean’s mouth before he can stop them. He was already halfway to naked. All he has to do is get rid of his grungy sweat pants, and he’s good to go.

This part is easy. Falling into bed. Sprawling on top of a nice, warm body, skin against skin. Seth’s kisses are always sharp. Teeth and aggression until you settle him down. 

If Dean’s a masochist, then Seth is probably a cenobite a la Clive Barker’s Hellraiser. It really seems like there’s nothing in the world he loves more than being in pain. Whether it’s physical, emotional, self-inflicted, or completely out of his control. He can’t get enough. Just wind him up and watch him go!

Dean drags blunt nails down the side of Seth’s ribcage to make him gasp. Nips at his neck. Grabs both of his wrists and pins them above his head. And really, Dean is kinda impressed with himself. Usually at this stage of intoxication he’s lost the fine motor skills for anything more complicated than lying back and letting someone else do the work. 

“You’re such a fucking whore,” Dean whispers right in Seth’s ear. “Watcha even doing here? Couldn’t pick up after the show now that you ain’t no champ?”

Dean knows that Seth doesn’t pick up after shows, anyway. Not for this sort of thing. He’s fucked his fair share of ring rats, and bragged about it in great detail, but he doesn’t let strangers see him vulnerable. It’d break the magic. 

At the end of the day, Seth Rollins just wants to cry on a nice fat dick. It’s a fact that brings Dean a perverse, private satisfaction. Not like he’s allowed to tell anyone. He’d get fired in two seconds. But he thinks about it whenever Seth gets on the mike, smirking, all puffed up and proud. In a way, it’s beautiful. To know how somebody that arrogant looks when they’re all fucked out and incoherent.

“I hate you,” Seth mumbles. The edge is already gone. He sounds a little dreamy. 

“That so?” Dean snorts. “Why’re you here then?”

“I don’t hate your cock. Why isn’t it in me yet?”

“Mmm, gimmie a minute, princess.” Dean laughs. “I know you like it rough, but I’m sure they don’t want you limping on camera when you’re s’posed to be recovered.”

Dean starts to sit back. He’s probably got lube around here somewhere. Usually he keeps stocked up. He’s not some sorta animal.

But before he can get very far, Seth clutches at his shoulders and pulls him back down.

“I got ready myself, idiot. Now come on. Fuck me.”

“Gosh, sweetheart,” Dean laughs. “Anybody ever tell you that you come off kinda desperate?”

Seth opens his mouth like he’s gonna respond. But before he can, Dean lines up and pushes into the slick heat of Seth’s body. That first moment of penetration is always bliss. They both grunt. Or well, Seth lets out more of a breathy whine. 

It’s kinda surprising that more people don’t realize it just by looking at him. Seth’s a greedy bottom, that just wants somebody to tell him he’s a good boy. It’s not rocket science. Who doesn’t love validation? It’s just, Seth’s got such low self-esteem underneath all that pomp and circumstance, he might actually believe this is the only way he can get it. Dean’s not gonna do anything to steer him off that train of thought. Not when the sex is this good.

“Fuck, baby,” Dean rasps. “So damn tight. You been savin’ yourself for me or somethin?”

Seth squirms underneath him, wraps his legs around Dean’s waist. He might be past the point of talking. Eyes closed. Lips parted, swollen and kiss-bruised. Dark hair feathered across the pillow. There’s something almost angelic about him, when Dean’s this deep in the booze. It’s easy to forget what a rat-bastard he really is. 

Dean starts to move. Slow at first. A lot of the time, this is quick and vicious. But right now, he kinda wants to savor it. Lose himself in the sensation. 

In a fucked up way, Seth is actually the longest relationship Dean’s ever had. He doesn’t date. Usually it’s a strict, hit it and quit it. He doesn’t have the time or energy for something more. But Seth just keeps insisting on these repeat performances. He’s the closest thing to consistency Dean’s ever tasted.

Seth is a moaner. Tends to make a racket. Like he wants the entire hallway to know what they’re doing. Or maybe he just can’t help himself. Dean doesn’t mind. He bites the side of Seth’s neck again. He’s a little out of breath himself. Just from how good Seth feels, muscles twitching and fluttering around him. Like Seth’s already getting close.

“You gonna come already?” Dean laughs. “Gonna finish without me even touching your little dick? Wouldn’t be the first time, huh, Sethie?”

Seth turns his head and presses his face into the pillow. He mumbles something quietly. Even if Dean’s already got an idea what’s happening. He wants to  _ hear _ it for sure. 

“What was that?” He snaps his hips a little harder. “You gotta speak up.”

Seth bites his lip. Looks consternated. Like he’s debating. He should know better. They both should. This is what happens when you play with fire. The house burns down, and nobody’s got the right to be surprised after the fact.

“C’mon princess,” Dean says in a softer voice. Even gives Seth a little kiss on the cheek. “Talk to me.”

_ “Daddy.” _ It’s barely audible. But it still sends an intense shock of heat through Dean’s body. His thrusts speed up. He’s much too hot all over. Fuck. 

He doesn’t even know why this is so hot. It’s messed up, by all accounts. Seth’s got a lot of Issues. He’ll tell you after a few beers. Never met his real father. A few more beers and some shots of tequila, he’ll admit to some complicated feelings about his step father. And well. Real deep down the well, he’ll tell you he fantasizes about climbing on  _ Hunter Hearst Helmsley’s _ dick because of the seventeen year age gap and the overwhelming Dad Vibes. He won’t admit to whether or not it’s actually happened. Dean wouldn’t be surprised. Jealous, maybe. But not surprised.

“Shit, yeah, baby. You like Daddy’s cock in you? You like getting fucked?”

_ “Yes,” _ Seth all but sobs. He tends to get weepy when they do this. Dean’s asked him about it in the sober light of day, and clarified that it’s not because Seth’s not enjoying himself. He just gets overwhelmed. Which frankly, is the worst sort of sexy.

He’s whimpering on every thrust now. Clinging to Dean. Pressing close, trying to rut against his stomach. Dean fists his hand in Seth’s hair. Kisses him deep. Nips at his lip. Seth’s eyes flutter open when Dean pulls back. He looks so damn fragile. His eyes are shining with tears. He’s fucking perfect. 

Dean’s never been in love. That’s what he tells himself. But it hurts every morning that he wakes up and Seth’s already gone. It hurts when they pass each other and Seth won’t even say hello. It sure as hell hurt when Seth clocked him with a chair and rejected him in front of a live audience. 

He knows this will only ever be what it is. Sordid late-night debauchery, forgotten in the light of day. It’s easier to pretend that Seth is the one who needs this. But it’s pretty dang far from the truth.

“Tell Daddy what you need,” Dean rasps. “Want you to come for me. I wanna feel it.”

Seth wines. Squeezes a few more tears out. He doesn’t like talking in the middle of this. But god, Dean likes to hear him stutter pleas in that soft, broken little voice. 

“Will you—can you—please?” Seth hiccups.

“Please, what?”

“Play with me.” It’s just a hint of a whisper. But it’s enough.

Dean wraps his hand around Seth’s cock. The head of it is already sticky. It doesn’t take much. Just a few firm strokes. Then Seth’s hips jerk and he falls apart. He squeezes down around Dean so sweet. It’s too easy to just let go. Chase down the tingling pleasure until it crests and leaves Dean boneless. Slumped on top of Seth, head spinning, higher than a kite. 

The nice part is almost over. 

He kisses Seth one more time before rolling off of him. It’s lucky that Dean is always tired after sex. He’ll pass out quick and won’t have to worry much till tomorrow morning. He’s already starting to drift off.

He can feel Seth shifting on the bed next to him. Maybe getting ready to take off. Dean braces for it. For the mattress to creak and the pleasant body heat to disappear.

Instead, Seth rolls closer. Drapes an arm across Dean’s chest. Rests his head on Dean’s shoulder. That’s new. Dean’s not complaining. 

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to lurk my tumblr.
> 
> Special thanks to Kat for the editing.


End file.
